


Be careful what you wish for

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humorous Ending, Language Barrier, Lols, Misunderstandings, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Scottish Character, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Kayleigh is tired of fucking make-do dudes.  Dean has been dutifully not noticing anything remotely sexy about her, ever.  So they agree to keep the lights off and make do with that.A gift fic.  Translations included.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/gifts).



Normally you wouldn’t be so picky.  When the hunts go this well - swift and deadly, grins and back-pats, so much adrenaline left over - and especially when it converges with a certain time of the month, you’re fucking needy.  It’s one of the few times you’ll use word and cunt-hungry bounces around behind pleasant smiles and feigned attentive listening.  Your pussy distracts you.  The lack of human friction distracts you.  You cross and recrosses your legs, even getting an ankle behind the other, which must look desperate, so like the good god-damned girl you knows boys like, you just play with your hair and sip suggestively.  

No amount of eager gesturing is going to transform these slim pickings into something worthwhile though.  Dean keeps on fucking up the bell-curve of all men.  And you keep on making sighs of exasperation about it, hoping that your frustration at his off-shore flirting will appear peripheral, like him.

“Kayleigh, are you okay?” this one asks.  “You seem frustrated.”

 _Aye, a’m,_ you think.   _Ye look a useless git_. “Ye knoo whit? Ah hink eh’d raither be indoors?”  And you nod like _Aye, och weel, eh?_

He’s a little surprised, does that backwards nod while he wonders what he did wrong.

“It’s nae ye, Sunshine,” you pat his arm.   _Ah juist need a proper jimmy_. “It’s prob’ly ma rags,” you say and let his disgust tie up that loose end.

On the way to the door, you catch Dean’s eye and he raises a finger for you to wait.  A few sentences to the woman of the hour and she’s frowning at her glass, much like Whatsisname.

“Hey,” he jogs to met you, “I’ll go with you.”

“What’s wrang?” you ask, not moving.

“Nah, not into it.  You?”

You shrug _Nope_ and head out the door as he holds it open, and he pulls on his jacket while you walk to the car together.  Side by side, really, not together.  You can works your legs and keep your fists to your pockets but every fucking sound of him, the fabric moving, his breath, there is it, right there but not yours fuck it.  Fuck it.  

Fuck nothing.  You’re pussy’s just going to run on the spot, smile into the dark and chew on memories until it dies of starvation.

You slam the passenger door and slump back into the seat with a dark scowl.  Dean starts wondering if he should be wearing a helmet.

“You okay over there?”

“Jist frustrated,” you grumble.  “S’noothin.”  

“What about?”

“Dunno,” you don’t want to share.  “Th’ weaither I guess.”  

Here’s the problem though.  Cunt-hungry is accurate, and you keep slumping and tucking your hips up, then sitting up straight and pushing your chest out, like the seam on your jeans can do you some sort of favour.  And Dean doesn’t recognise what it all is, but he knows what hips are, and what breasts are, and in the corner of his eye you look exactly like what you are - sexually frustrated.  Months of dutifully not looking at you that way is starting to give out.  You’re sighing so _emphatically_ , nearly groaning.  But it can’t be that, says his brain, because Kayleigh would never be so obviously…. horny.  

So, as distracting as you are, Dean figures you must be ill, or just upset, so well trained is he at distancing you from sexiness.

He’ll be fine, he decides.  He’ll just wait till you’re asleep and go have a quiet wank in the bathroom, think about someone else.

 _Ay’ll be fiyn,_ you think.   _I’ll jist gang shoot masell._

You brush your teeth so angrily you nearly stab yourself in the jaw and your groin is so wired you get into your sleep shorts like a drunk.  

Dean’s quicker at getting ready, but you’re so drilled into your own body, entirely focused on what you’re sure can’t get any relief tonight, you aren’t seeing anything properly.  You flick off the light before leaving the bathroom and walk into a pitch black room and straight into a wall of muscle, which annoys the shit out of you.

“Och, sorry!”

“Sorry, you ‘right?”

“Mm.”  You didn’t groan, you don’t think, but it was a struggle.  He’s holding your shoulder steady, with a hand on your damned waist, and you’ve got his upper arm in your hand and then, then you go and let the hand on his chest slide to his waist too.

He’s not moving. Not going anywhere.   _C'moan,_ you wish, frowning it into the dark, _fookin’ dae something.  Don’t mak’ me_.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

“I’m jist.”  You say the words with sculpted indifference.  “I’m jist tahyid ay random dickheids frae bars,” you say firmly, and blab. “I want sometin’ better.”

“Well,” Dean says carefully, “how will you know if they’re-” but you react with frustration, clenching the fabric of his shirt and scratching his waist, because he’s not suppose to argue the point.  You don’t want problem solving, you want the solution.

“Arenae ye?” you ask, and he can tell you’re looking up at him now, where you think he is.

He lets a long breath leave him, pretending that’s him being sensible and mature before he says the right thing.  “I’m not sure we can do anything else.”

“We can lae th’ lights aff,” you say, then pull your upper lip into your mouth in surprise, suck in the lower for a firm bite.  

It’s worth it.  

“Jist. Seep it simple, aye? Scratch ‘at itch.” 

You can feel him ramp up, wind up, hear his breathing agree with you.  “Kay, I just-”

“Ye dornt ‘ave tae kiss meh,“ you add, such a bitter compromise, “if ye dornt want tae.”

“I-  Okay.”  Bird in the hand and all that.

Right then.

“Tak’ yer clase aff.”

Dean steps back and you hear him removing his shirt and shorts, so you find the bed, pull the covers all the way back and throw your clothes off too, crawling across to your bag to find a condom.

Dean knows the sound of the foil and starts to find you, his fingers bumping your ankles first, then leading up the outside of a leg.  He climbs on, the dipping mattress, and then his heat and breathing giving him away, and you press the wrapper to his chest with a finger.

Sitting on his heels, he puts on the protection while you wait and listen, rub your thighs together.  Then a beat of quiet arrives and you reach out, slide your hand up inside his reaching arm and around his chest, both of you navigating the other instinctively.

He’s over you soon, settling his waist between your thighs, hot and smooth, and you reach down and lead him straight to you, no slipping about your slick, no hugs or words, no nothing, just Dean’s aching hardness pointing at your throbbing softness, pushing into the swollen shape, pushing apart your insides, and reaching up into your body, and he groans.  It’s deep and surprised, and you’re frowning hard, curling back at the feel of it, like a lactic muscle strung out, and pull on his neck and whine “Och, Jeesus.”  You wrap your legs around him and clamp him against you, pull his whole weight down so he’ll sink to the bottom, and wrench your hips up hard.

“Wait, Kale,” he says, “just, gimme a sec.”

You breathe tightly, try to relax your arms a bit and wait for him to get comfortable.  He barely moves at all, just drags his mouth over your collarbone up to your neck muscles, lips tucked against your skin.  

It’s such a long pause you start to stroke his neck, but stop because affection seems to be a no-no, and you hear the smallest of huffs before he pulls back and thrusts in.

You hum in satisfaction, hungry for more, rocking with his steady beat, almost smiling that relief is on the way.  But he isn’t going hard, and it’s practically a tickle compared to what you want.  None of this soft or gentle or ease, you want impact.

Every push is met with your legs, pulling him closer, nudging him deeper, and Dean’s frustrated with your backseat driving, so rather than tell you to knock it off he offers, “You wanna ride me?”

“Och, aye!”

The flip is quick and you’re walking your palms down his torso, grinding yourself down before he can even get a handful of hip.  “Oh aye,” you sigh. “Fook.”

Straight off your knees are set and you’re driving down, ramming your pussy onto him like there’s gold in them there balls and he’s snatched onto your waist with digging fingers and a curling body.  “Ho-Christ!  Kayleigh!”

The darkness isn’t as thick as it was before, and Dean’s form starts to become clearer beneath you, so strong and long, beautiful and vulnerable, and a part of your mind flails at the perfection of it being so much better than you ever hoped.  So you close your eyes, thinking instead of just his cock, that hardness driving into you, the rise of his bone beneath it and how it hits everything just right.

Relentlessly you bounce on him, then start to tilt so you can get the head of his dick to run back and forth over your g-spot, and it makes you cry out at how good it is, nearly perfect without him even trying.

His hands start to resist, holding you on the up beat and pulling you from the down.  It’s distracting, and when you look down he’s wincing, the light good enough now you can read his unhappy expression.

“What’s wrang?” you slow a little, puffing and trying to not sound annoyed.

“Slower,” he gasps.

“Sorry,” you say, “Sorry, Dean.”  You put your hands on his belly and just roll on him, swallow down the tightness in your jaw and the ache in your tongue.  You close your eyes and try, really try, to ride him smoothly and enjoy it, look for the pressure and the way your can wring yourself out on someone like this.

His hand spreads itself across your belly, the other following your rhythm on your hip, and your eyes peep in the darkness, seeing him staring at you in what is now bright moonlight beaming across the bed from the break in the curtains.  

You can’t help it.  You open your eyes properly and see him taking you all in, breasts as gorgeous as he ever guessed, the curve and softness of you right there, smooth and strong, not a single interruption from thigh to eye.  His gaze makes its way to yours and you let him see your nerves.  He holds you between his hands and sits up.

Cradling you, hinging you off himself, he asks “Why can’t we kiss?”

Damn he’s close, all his lines gone smudgy in the moonlight.  “W-, Ah thooght it was jist a scuttle, reit?” you defend quietly.  “Kissin’ is sorta intimate.”

“Why would I want to do this without kissing you?”

If you could cover your face right now and get away with it, you would. But you’re a hunter and should be made of braver stuff than that.  It’s bright enough to give away your guilty blush.

“You don’t want to kiss me,” he says and his disappointment throws your heart into reality.

“Whit?! Ay coors Ay dae!” You grab his face and mash your mouth on his, mumbling, “If ye arenae th’ most irresistible dobber Ah ken.”

His kisses are shallow but the grin is big and bright, and he drags his hands down your hair, all the way down your back, one after the other. “Why were you so angry before, then?” he wonders.

“Och, Ay’s jist sae feckin’ horny,” you grizzle, gritting your teeth and wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Oh no,” he smirks.  “How will we fix that?”

“Buck th’ jobby oot ay me, Dean,” you tell him, pull on him hard enough to squish his cheek into your lips.  “Fook me so feckin’ weel, aye?  Ye feel jist hoo Ah imagined.  Perfect.”

Dean kisses you, reaching with his lips as he smooths your hair away from your face, dragging his hands over your head.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Och, ye knoo ye kin dae feckin’ magic wi’ ‘at bobby a yoors,” you groan.  “Main ‘en Dean, dinnae haud back oan me noo.”

The sound of his hand on your ass is fuckin’ perfect, makes your grin slack and reach to taste him, and he holds you where he wants you while he bucks up a few times.  But he’s quick to get on his back again and get a good hold on your waist because that bounce you had going before, that was goddamn sweet, and he can watch the moonlight highlight you goddess-gorgeous, and use his legs to fuck up into you harder than if you’re beneath him, all while on his back.

In seconds you’re leaning on his chest, struggling to find a balance while he drives into your g-spot and you’re crying out “Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh! Fook! Aye! Yes! Ah!”

“Use your fingers,” he grunts, and you lean on his shoulder, reaching down with your other hand and rubbing how you like it.  He keeps going, fast, hard, filling the room with smacking, breathy beats.  “Harder,” he says.  “I’m holding back over here.”

So you do, harder and faster and practically spin yourself into oblivion.  “AAH! DEE!!”  You shudder in his hold, curling and rippling over his cock tightly enough to make him gasp and groan and ram your hips down on his so hard that the bones thud.  

You try to hold yourself up on his shoulders but he pulls you down, hand on your head, right to his mouth for kisses that suffocate you and crush your lips, and sheen of sweat breaks out over your back and you let yourself feel every inch of skin you can.

Dean rolls you both over, writhing so that his body rubs up and down yours, his cock falling free. He’s so heavy, the heat and size of him eclipsing, and you’re beginning to think your pussy is seriously tenderised beyond living memory.  It’s so very good.

“You’re okay?”  Dean asks.  “You’re okay with all of this?”

“Aye,” you sigh, pulling yourself long to get some air. “Aye, A’ve aye wanted ye Dean.”

Those eyelashes, those fucking eyes.  He’s inches away and it’s not dark at all, not with him smiling at you like that.  “Good,” he says.  “Good. Same here.”

He cleans up, as do you, and comes back to your bed to snuggle up tight and close and smother you with his burling warmth and affection.

“Dae ye think ye cuid gies a bit a space?” you chuckle.  “Ye'r fookin mass o’ jimmy.”

“Um,” he sighs, and snuggles in even more.  “Tuesday, I think.”

“Dean?” you say, trying to see him nuzzling into your neck.

“Mm?”

“Did ye ken whit ah said?” you frown.

“Yeah, me too.”

“No Dean,” you try again.  “Did ye oonderstand whit Ay said?” 

“Yeah-yeah,” he wriggles.  “Usually.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aye, a’m, you think. Ye look a useless git. “Ye knoo whit? Ah hink eh’d raither be indoors?” And you nod like Aye, och weel, eh? = Yeah, I am, you think. You look like a useless git. “You know what? I think I’d rather be at home?” And you nod like Yeah, oh well, huh?  
> “It’s nae ye, Sunshine,” you pat his arm. Ah juist need a proper jimmy. “It’s prob’ly ma rags,” = “It’s not you, Sunshine,” you pat his arm. I just need a proper man. “It’s probably my period,”  
> “What’s wrang?” = ”What’s wrong?”  
> “Jist frustrated,” you grumble. “S’noothin.” = ”Just frustrated,” you grumble. “It’s nothing.”  
> “Dunno,” you don’t want to share. “Th’ weaither I guess.” = ”Dunno,” you don’t want to share. “The weather I guess.”  
> Ay’ll be fiyn, you think. I’ll jist gang shoot masell. = I’ll be fine, you think. I’ll just go and shoot myself.  
> C'moan, you wish, frowning it into the dark, fookin’ dae something. Don’t mak’ me. = Come on, you wish, frowning it into the dark, fucking do something. Don’t make me.  
> “I’m jist.” You say the words with sculpted indifference. “I’m jist tahyid ay random dickheids frae bars,” you say firmly, and blab. “I want sometin’ better.” = “I’m just.” You say the words with sculpted indifference. “I’m just tired of random dickheads from bars,” you say firmly, and blab. “I want something better.”  
> “Arenae ye?” = ”Aren’t you?”  
> “We can lae th’ lights aff,” = ”We can leave the lights off,”  
> “Jist. Seep it simple, aye? Scratch ‘at itch.” = ”Just. Keep it simple, yeah? Scratch that itch.”  
> “Ye dornt ‘ave tae kiss meh,“ you add, such a bitter compromise, “if ye dornt want tae.” = “You don’t have to kiss me,” you add, such a bitter compromise, “if you don’t want to.”  
> “Tak’ yer clase aff.” = ”Take your clothes off.”  
> “Och, Jeesus.” = ”Oh, Jesus.”  
> “W-, Ah thooght it was jist a scuttle, reit?” you defend quietly. “Kissin’ is sorta intimate.” = “W-, I thought it was just a fling, right?” you defend quietly. “Kissing is sort of intimate.”  
> “Whit?! Ay coors Ay dae!” = “What?! Of course I do!”  
> “If ye arenae th’ most irresistible dobber Ah ken.” = If you aren’t the most irresistible bastard I know.”  
> “Och, Ay’s jist sae feckin’ horny,” = “Oh, I was just so fuckin’ horny,”   
> “Buck th’ jobby oot ay me, Dean,” = “Fuck the shit out of me, Dean,”  
> “Fook me so feckin’ weel, aye? Ye feel jist hoo Ah imagined. Perfect.” = “Fuck me so fuckin’ well, yeah? You feel just how I imagined. Perfect.”  
> “Och, ye knoo ye kin dae feckin’ magic wi’ ‘at bobby a yoors,” you groan. “Main ‘en Dean, dinnae haud back oan me noo.” = “Oh, you know you can do fuckin’ magic with that cock of yours,” you groan. “C’mon then Dean, don’t hold back on me now.”  
> “Aye,” you sigh, pulling yourself long to get some air. “Aye, A’ve aye wanted ye Dean.” = “Yeah,” you sigh, pulling yourself long to get some air. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted you Dean.”  
> “Dae ye think ye cuid gies a bit a space?” you chuckle. “Ye'r fookin mass o’ jimmy.” = “Do you think you could give us a bit of space?” you chuckle. “You’re a fucking mass of man.”  
> “Did ye ken whit ah said?” = ”Did you get what I said?”  
> “Did ye oonderstand whit Ay said?” = "Did you understand what I said?”


End file.
